


Possibly, Maybe

by betweenthebliss



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2532404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthebliss/pseuds/betweenthebliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is just a normal twentysomething working as a barista, grumpily unwilling to flirt with the hot nerdy-looking guy who's become a regular over the past few weeks. His coworker Emma decides to do the work for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possibly, Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this photo kicking around on tumblr](http://41.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbevvfUw0O1qduyeio1_500.jpg). Written in one sitting, unbeta'd. Title from "Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop" by Landon Pigg.

The man is a new regular who started coming in a few weeks ago, and seeing him is the best part of Erik's morning. On the short side of average, he dresses like someone's grandfather, but it's not enough to hide the trim lines of his body underneath all the layers, and there's a sparkle in his eyes that Erik suspects he's not alone in being helpless to respond to. When he gets to the head of Erik's line each morning, he orders a chai or a monstrous cup of tea and spends a minute picking over the pastry selections before settling, almost always, on an almond croissant.

He's pleasant and friendly, but he's never offered a name, rarely said anything beyond the sort of small talk everyone makes while waiting for their coffee, never looked at Erik in a speculative way, at least not where anyone could see. He doesn't have a visible mutation, but he didn't blink twice at Azazel; Erik clocked him noticing the NYMOF cards on the till and smiling one time, but he never talks about it. He never talks about himself at all. He's there and gone, present exactly long enough for Erik to make his drink and discreetly ogle his ass on his way out the door.

There's nothing that sets him apart from any of the other good-looking customers that walk through the shop every day. That he seems smart and charming doesn't hurt, but isn't particularly special. That Erik finds himself weak-kneed in the face of the man's dazzling smile just doesn't need to be talked about. Or acknowledged at all, really.

Erik's idle appreciation shifts the morning Angel calls out and Erik's stuck manning the bar and the till by himself while Emma handles food and bussing the cafe. It's madness, and there's no time for anything, and Erik's barely realized it's cute nerdy guy at the front of the line when a squealing noise from the bar reminds him a pitcher of milk is about to overflow. He won't reach it in time if he runs, and he'd rather not look like a flailing idiot in front of this guy— he's reaching out with his power almost before he's finished the thought, switching off the knob and setting the pitcher down on the counter with a gesture as he turns back to the guy in front of him.

Hot nerdy guy, who's looking at him with slightly widened eyes, his mouth half open like he's going to say something. Erik, defensiveness twisting hotly through him, cuts him off with a curt, "What'll it be?" The man's staring— his eyes are an unreal shade of blue; there are freckles dusting his nose— he finally seems to get that Erik asked him a question, and suddenly his expression blossoms into a grin.

"That was marvelous," he says, practically glowing as he gestures to the bar, the milk pitcher that's now (in for a penny, in for a pound) pouring into a cup of its own volition. "Telekenesis?"

"Metal," Erik says gruffly, mollified in spite of himself.

"Amazing," the man says, so earnestly sincere it makes Erik embarrassed for him. He doesn't know what to say; he's never had a total stranger react that way to his power, and even here, in a mutant-friendly neighborhood, there are still assholes. That's why he barely uses it at work where people can see. He's got no idea what to say next; the guy's just looking at him with that broad smile that's leaving Erik tongue-tied and jelly-legged. He can't look away from that gaze, that face, and god, his mouth— Erik can't look at his mouth without thinking things he shouldn't be thinking in public.

Hot nerdy guy flushes just as the woman behind him in line makes a pointed cough, and he shakes himself as though he's been slapped, blurting out, "I'm terribly sorry, I'm holding up the— I'll have a large Earl Grey and a scone if you don't mind, oh that's right I'll get the scone down there," he nods at Emma, still slightly pink in the face, "brilliant, thanks," and before Erik can do anything beyond think _He's adorable when he's flustered_ , he's moved down the line, and it's too busy for Erik to do more than glance his way before he's picked up his tea and vanished out the door.

Azazel and Emma have him pegged almost immediately, after that.

"Your man-crush was in here earlier," Emma tells him silkily when he comes back from lunch one afternoon. Erik pretends not to know who she's talking about, but she ignores him. "I would've pegged the hipster professor as a vegetarian, but he put away one of Janos's Reubens like he hadn't eaten in a week." She smiles, flicking Erik's bicep with her finger. "Let's hope he's as enthusiastic about man meat as he is about roast beef, hmm?"

"He's not a hipster," is Erik's only retort, and he doesn't need Emma laughing at him to know it's not a very good one.

Azazel doesn't mock him, at least not verbally. But every time the guy leaves, Erik looks up from watching him go to find Azazel looking at him with the flat expression that means he's laughing his ass off on the inside.

Erik doesn't care. It's not a man-crush— it's not a crush at all. He doesn't even know the guy. He's just— easy on the eyes, is all. And he thought Erik's power was cool. There are worse reasons to smile at someone.

Friday morning is a bit different. People smile at Erik— at 6am, they smile, and don't seem deterred when he doesn't smile back. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize they mostly smile after glancing at the chalkboard hanging on the outside of the bar counter, the one where Emma writes the daily specials and sometimes, if she's bored, bad jokes or profiles of the baristas. He wonders what she wrote today; he can't see it from where he is, but he makes a mental note to go check later on, once the line dies down and he can get out from behind the counter.

And then the gorgeous nerd comes in, takes one look at the board, then at Erik, and bursts out laughing. "Can I help you?" Erik asks, just this side of testy.

"I certainly hope so," the man says, still trying to get his chuckles under control. "I take it you're not responsible for this, then." He points to the board.

"No. That's Emma." He nods at the blonde, who gives a little finger-tinkling wave from where she's standing at the bagel station.

"But you are the barista on duty this morning?" He's awfully persistent. Erik's already thunderous, wondering what the hell Emma wrote about him, totally unwilling to admit he's concerned he might be getting made fun of by his— okay, fine— his customer crush.

"Yes. Like I am every morning." Erik pointedly looks down at the cup in his hand, marker poised to write the drink order down on it, then back up at the man's face.

(Well, he gets to his face eventually, but not before snagging on the open collar of the man's shirt, showing an appealing slice of skin and more freckles. Erik wonders how far down they go. The guy coughs and Erik's eyes snap to his face. He's sure he's not drooling. Probably.)

"What'll it be today?" he asks. It comes out more clipped than he intended; he's humiliating himself and he can't make it stop. Normally he has no trouble not caring what people think. This is horrible.

But then.

"Oh, allow me," hot professor guy says, his mouth curling around a little smirk as he deftly plucks the cup and marker from Erik's hand and scribbles something on the side. Something that takes far longer than just writing a drink order should, and leaves the man slightly flushed. Erik tries not to find that adorable, and fails. He tries not to notice his heartbeat quickening; he fails at that too.

Setting everything back down on the counter with a slight air of defiance, the gorgeous guy in the grandpa sweater gives Erik a saucy little grin (which does _not_ send his stomach somersaulting, _not at all_ ), sticks his hands in his pockets, and saunters down to the till to give Azazel his money. Erik picks the cup up, his mouth a little dry, and turns it so he can read what's written on it.

_212-545-8311_  
 _chai please. and I do hope you'll call._  
 _I don't just come here for the coffee, you know. -Charles_

Erik can feel his face is on fire, and he whirls toward the fridge, grateful for the blast of cool air as he grabs the milk, turning back to the bar to measure and start steaming. Charles— hot professor guy's name is Charles, he thinks stupidly, it suits him— wants him to call. Has been coming here— if he wasn't exaggerating— because of Erik? That seems mad— they've barely spoken, and Erik is not a nice person in the mornings, he's barely _functional_ in the mornings, what on earth could he have done to keep Charles coming back?

The milk is done steaming; Erik picks up the cup with Charles's messy handwriting on it and is about to pour the chai into it when a hand reaches into his field of vision and snatches it out of his hand. "You have to keep that one, idiot," murmurs Emma in his ear, handing him a clean one. "Otherwise how will you call him?"

Erik says nothing— doesn't say that he's not sure he's ready for that, it's only been a year since Sebastian and he hasn't even let himself think about dating again, how can he?— just slides a sleeve onto the clean cup and pours Charles's drink. He's pretty sure he's still pink in the face as he stalks to the end where Charles is waiting, and slides the cup across to him in an awkward silence.

Charles picks it up, eyes on Erik's, and Erik's pulse is hammering in his throat, but he can't seem to make himself _say_ anything, just stand there woodenly staring while the awkwardness gets worse.

"Ah… I'll see you later, then," Charles says at last, sounding a little uncertain, and has actually made it two steps toward the door before Erik unfreezes from the trance he's been in and calls, "Wait!"

Charles turns back, eyebrows up, and Erik beckons with one hand for the cup in Charles's hand. "Your drink— it's not done."

"Oh… alright…" Charles hands it back with a cautious expression and Erik doesn't look at him as he uncaps a marker with his teeth, tipping the cup a little so he can write on the sleeve.

_Erik - 718-545-1794 - I get out at 3_

He hands it back and he _knows_ he's red in the face now, but he doesn't care. Charles took a gamble— the least he can do let him know it wasn't for nothing. "There." Charles picks it up, a little smile teasing the corners of his mouth as he reads what Erik's written.

"My last class ends at 3:30," he says, wrapping both hands around the cup, his smile bright and painfully real, til Erik can't help but return a small one of his own. "I'll text you."

He keeps looking at Erik as he backs toward the door, and then he's through it and gone, leaving Erik standing there with a dopey grin on his face and an almost unfamiliar feeling of hopeful excitement unfurling in his chest. Azazel has to say his name twice before he snaps out of it and responds, and then he's back to work slinging drinks for the rest of the morning.

It's not until the morning rush is completely over that Erik remembers the chalkboard. He ducks around the counter and reads Emma's handiwork with a mixture of horror and mortification, looking up to see her regarding him coolly from where she sits on top of the ice chest, sipping a latte. "You're a monster," he accuses. "Desperately single?"

She rolls her eyes. "Don't act so put-upon, sugar. It worked, didn't it?"

Erik's phone buzzes in his pocket; a text from an unfamiliar number. _As a regular customer, I have to say today's drink recommendation was the best one yet._

He's too busy grinning, and texting back _Hope you're not talking about the chai, I wasn't even paying attention making it_ , to notice Emma and Azazel high-fiving each other over the pastry case.


End file.
